Good Enough
by 12beastboy
Summary: Recent events have left Stiles bruised, battered, and unable to disclose the truth of what happened to anyone. He's tired of having to lie to everyone he cares about, but it's the only way he can protect them. (No slash.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I don't remember what season I was watching when I wrote this. But it's before Sheriff Stilinski finds out about the supernatural world and stuff. And most likely before Sexy Stiles (a.k.a. Dark Stiles a.k.a. Nogitsune). Also, this is a currently unfinished piece. Don't know when, if ever, I'll complete it. Fresh out of ideas over here.**

* * *

Stiles balanced the still-sizzling frying pan in one hand and two plates in the other as he turned to face his father. "Dinner," he said with grandiose bravado, "Is served." He set the items down with a flourish onto the kitchen table. Granted, supper hadn't taken much to prepare, seeing as it'd consisted of reheating Chinese takeout, but it was about as close as the Stilinski household ever got to a home-cooked meal.

Stiles' dad spooned greasy chicken onto one of the plates as Stiles plopped into a seat with that graceless quality he'd managed to perfect over the last few years. "So," his father began, lifting a forkful of rice towards his mouth, "How was school?"

Stiles mused about that quietly, helping himself to the Chinese on his own plate and being careful not to let his long sleeves dip into the sauce. He'd fallen asleep in History (again), helped Scott organize a meeting with Derek and his were-groupies (again), and been yelled at by Coach (again).

And, of course, there was that other thing.

But Stiles didn't like to think about that. It made his stomach twist into tiny knots and his lungs deflate until he was struggling to inhale. It made his neck burn with shame and his mouth dry up with fear.

So, yeah, thinking about it was not an option. Let alone discussing it at the dinner table with his father.

"Oh, you know," Stiles said, shoveling an enormous amount of food into his mouth. "Same old, same old."

His father raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. Then he set his fork down on the table and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze searching. Stiles hoped his gulp wasn't as audible as it sounded in his ears. This was Dad's interrogation posture. This was how Sheriff Stilinski made criminals crack and spill everything they knew.

It was also a very familiar pose to the sheriff's son.

"Stiles," his dad said. He sounded . . . Stiles wasn't sure what his father sounded like. Concern tinted the sheriff's words, but so did wariness. His dad had never been _wary_ with him before. Ever since his mom had died, it'd been just the two of them. Father and son. They could trust each other implicitly.

Or, at least, had been able to trust each other before this stupid full moon business. So, while the wariness in Dad's voice shouldn't have come as a surprise, it still kind of stung.

His father continued, unaware of Stiles' thought process. "Stiles, you've been acting . . . off, lately." He seemed to realize the error of his word choice, because quickly amended with, "Er, more off than usual, I mean." He frowned. "You've been quiet. Is there something you want to tell me?"

Stiles' hand, which had been reaching for the pan, spasmed into a fist as raw memories flooded his senses. _Hot breath against his neck. A brick wall scraping into his chest. Whispered words, too close_ (too close too close too close) _to his ear: "Well, what do we have here?"_

Stiles forced his hand to relax, but he caught his dad's quick glance downward and knew the action hadn't passed unnoticed by the cop. He tried to laugh, but the sound that left his throat sounded strangled. "I would think me being quiet would be a reason to celebrate."

"Stiles," his father snapped, all humor gone from his face. "I'm being serious. What is going on with you?"

Stiles instinctively shrunk back in on himself. _I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine._ Maybe if he said it enough, it'd be true. "I'm – I don't – it's nothing. I'm fine." He hastily began clearing the table, his normally bottomless appetite suddenly gone.

The elder Stilinski lurched forward. "Son," he said softly. One large hand wrapped around Stiles' thin wrist.

Stiles jerked his arm back as though he'd been burned, a quiet hiss sliding past his clenched teeth. _Crap,_ he thought immediately afterward, freezing in his tracks. _Did he see that? Oh gosh, please don't let him have seen that please don't let him have seen that._

But really, when was the last time the universe had actually decided to play nice with Stiles Stilinski?

As Stiles' dad leapt to his feet, Stiles' mind helpfully supplied the answer: _Never._

"Stiles," his dad said urgently, and Stiles almost shivered at the intensity in the sheriff's words. "Are you hurt?"

Stiles' mouth was open, ready to respond with an easy, "No, I'm fine," but the lie caught somewhere in his lungs and refused to budge, like an edged piece of shrapnel. But if the lie was in his chest, then the truth was lodged somewhere in his throat, because, when it came to his dad, the truth was what he was always choking on. He couldn't continue lying to his dad like this. One of these days, he was going to break and tell his father everything.

But not today. Not now. Because this truth, this problem, this _nightmare_ , was _Stiles'_ , and no one else's. Not Dad's, not Scott's, not Derek's. It was _his_ , and he was going to keep it that way. He was so sick of being a burden to everyone – in his dad's eyes, he was too young; in the werewolves' eyes, he was too human. They all viewed him as a liability, but he could protect himself.

Except he knew he couldn't.

Just like he knew he couldn't lie to his dad again.

But telling the truth still wasn't an option, and his father was just standing there and _looking_ at him, and he knew that if he let any kind of noise exit his mouth, the truth would peel off the back of his tongue and splatter all over the older Stilinski in a macabre image of brutal honesty. And it would feel _nice_. He wouldn't be the only one shouldering this problem (this hell), and his dad would help, and he'd have someone to lean on when everything got to be too much.

But with the truth would come shame and disappointment, and he could still remember the hushed words breathed into his ear: _"I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. And you know I could."_

So he bit down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood. He didn't trust himself to speak (couldn't lie, couldn't tell the truth), which meant that there was only one course of action left available to him. He turned and bolted out of the house, ignoring his dad's startled shout behind him. He couldn't deal with this right now. There was so much pressure pushing down on his shoulders while lies and silent screams plugged his airway and _he couldn't breathe._

When he reached the shelter of his Jeep, he shoved the keys into the ignition. He didn't turn them, though. He knew his father would recognize his need to be alone right now. However, if he drove away without telling the sheriff where he was headed, _then_ he would be in serious trouble. So he was content to just sit in the unmoving car and let his mind wander. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the steering wheel, trying to get his focus back by inhaling and exhaling in slow, measured breaths.

"What are you doing."

Stiles certainly did _not_ scream like a six year-old girl at the unexpected voice. No he did not, because he was a mature teenager who dealt with horrifying, supernatural occurrences on a regular basis. So once he was done not-screaming, he handled the situation in a mature kind of way.

"Oh. My. _Gosh_ ," he shouted at the unwelcome visitor sitting in the back of his car. "What the _actual heck_ is _wrong_ with you people?"

"I needed to talk to you," Derek answered, unfazed.

Stiles gripped his hair with both hands. "I have a phone!"

"Yeah," Derek conceded, "But it's harder to smell your fear in a text."

Stiles stared at the other man for several seconds before dropping his face into his hands, muffling his words. "I hate my life."

Stiles raised his head in time to see Derek roll his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Whatever," the werewolf responded. "I just came to tell you that there's still no sign of your Chemistry teacher anywhere."

"You almost gave me a heart palpitation for something that could have easily – _easily_ – been said over text?" Stiles probably would have been angrier with the young adult if he weren't so terrified of the wolf that said young adult could become.

Derek cocked his head at Stiles. "There's something going on with you," he said, abruptly changing topics.

Stiles crossed his arms in front of his chest and sunk lower in his seat. "That seems to be the topic of conversation today," he muttered crossly.

Derek, bless his wolfy soul, completely ignored the hostility and continued. "When you were talking to your dad, I could hear your heartbeat from all the way out here." He leaned forward. "You were upset."

"You know, if this whole Jacob Black thing doesn't work out for you, you could always take up a job as a detective," Stiles said seriously, "Because you're a regular Sherlock Holmes." Okay, so maybe he was being a bit more obnoxious than usual, but he didn't know what else to do with himself.

Derek sniffed. "You smell different, too."

Ignored again. Shocker.

"Okay, Derek, I'd say you've outstayed your welcome, but I don't recall ever welcoming you in the first place, so just get out of my car." He hoped that if he spoke with enough authority, Derek would actually believe he had it.

Stiles watched Derek wrinkle his nose in the mirror. Then the werewolf's eyes narrowed with what looked like perplexity. "Someone else's smell is on you . . . a werewolf's."

Stiles could hear his own blood pulsing through his ears. Derek couldn't find out. Derek was not _allowed_ to find out – perhaps for different reasons than Stiles' father, but the fact still remained: Derek couldn't know.

"Derek," Stiles ground out between his teeth, making eye contact with the older male through the rearview mirror. "Get. Out."

A strange expression had manifested itself on Derek's face. "Why don't I recognize the scent?"

Stiles wondered if it was obvious that he was breathing too fast or that his skin was growing uncomfortably warm. Why couldn't Derek just _leave it alone_?

He stormed out of the Jeep, walked over to Derek's side, and yanked the door open.

No words were spoken, but the look on Stiles' face must have been serious enough for Derek to take the hint. The werewolf held up his hands in mock surrender. "All right, I'm going."

Stiles didn't say anything in response, choosing instead to let his (what he hoped was) stony glare fill the silence as Derek hopped out of the vehicle.

He was scared. He was so, so scared. But, as familiar as he was with fear, anger was more manageable. Frustration was more comfortable than the weak, helpless feeling that overtook him whenever he was reminded about how vulnerable he was.

So when he slammed the car door shut and disregarded Derek entirely by stalking back towards his house, it wasn't really Derek's fault.

He walked through the front door of his house and pretended like he couldn't see Derek still standing where he'd left the werewolf, right by the Jeep.

His dad was finishing putting the dishes in the sink when Stiles slammed the front door closed. "Stiles?" His dad's voice was cautious. "Do you want to talk?"

Stiles sighed, suddenly very, very tired. "Not now, Dad," he said softly, trudging up the stairs. "I'm just gonna go to bed."

His gait faltered a little when a hurt expression crossed his father's face. His relationship with his only remaining family was crumbling. He couldn't keep doing this.

" _I'll kill them,"_ the low voice echoed in his head. _"I'll kill them all."_

And so he said nothing.

* * *

The next morning passed without incident, besides the sideways glances his dad would throw at him over their breakfast. But Stiles' easy smiles and never-lacking sarcasm seemed to dissuade most, if not all, of the sheriff's fears.

It was around the afternoon that everything started falling apart.

"Stilinski!" Coach Finstock barked. "Move your butt!"

Stiles gave Coach the "okay" sign. His classmates were already done changing into their gym clothes, and he still had yet to take off his shirt.

Coach rolled his eyes. "Today, Stilinski," he said when Stiles made no move to change for gym class.

Stiles forced a quick flash of teeth that might have passed as a grin and slowly reached for the hem of his shirt. Scott, standing next to him, huffed in mild annoyance. "I'll see you outside," he told Stiles as he made his way out of the locker room.

Coach was close on Scott's heels, but he stopped in the doorway and gave Stiles a searching look. "Er, Stilinski," he said, looking extremely uncomfortable. "Do you – are you doing all right?"

Whoa. Stop. Did Coach just ask him about his well-being? Did Coach actually sound _concerned_? _Am I in the show_ The Twilight Zone _?_ Actually, that would answer a lot of the questions he'd been asking about his life over the last year.

He realized he was staring at Coach, his mouth gaping open like some kind of retarded fish. He shut his jaw with a snap and hoped he'd managed to salvage what little dignity he held in Coach's eyes.

Coach hastily coughed into his arm, his gaze flitting to the side. "Not that I care, or anything. It's just, I'll get fired for not asking that to weirdly behaving students every once in a while."

Stiles was shamelessly touched. It was nice to know that even Coach had a heart somewhere underneath his uniform.

Coach snorted. "But you're always weird, so who am I kidding?"

Well, the moment had been nice while it'd lasted.

A loud clatter in the hallway caught Coach's attention. He stalked out of the room, hollering, "Greenburg! What did I say about touching things?"

That was the nicest thing Coach had ever said to him. Stiles had half a mind to run after Finstock with one hand clasped dramatically over his heart, crying, "Oh Captain, my Captain," but a) that would effectively ruin the small amount of good grace he'd somehow managed to win from Coach, and b) he needed to use the empty locker room to his advantage.

He traded his stiff jeans for baggy shorts and began lifting the hem of his long-sleeved shirt. Stiles had had to start wearing more layers than normal once his . . . _unique situation_ had begun.

His shirt was over his head when he heard rapid footsteps enter the room. _No, wait,_ his panicked mind pleaded frantically. He tried to get his arms to pull his shirt back down, but he felt as though his body was moving in slow motion even as his brain fast-forwarded into overdrive.

"Dang it," Scott was saying above the white noise inside Stiles' head, "I left my –"

The silence after Scott's abrupt halt in speech was deafening. Stiles' head was still covered by the shirt, preventing him from seeing anything, but he cautiously peeked his eyes over the hem to view Scott's reaction.

Scott's eyes were fixed on Stiles' torso, his mouth half-open, as though he'd forgotten to shut it when his brain stopped feeding him words. "Stiles," Scott finally said quietly, one hand slowly reaching forward. "What happened?"

Stiles immediately shoved his shirt back down, hiding his bruised, bleeding skin from sight. The last time he'd seen his bare upper body (this morning), four long, shallow gashes in his side had finally stopped seeping blood, and the multiple bruises littering his stomach and back had been a pale combination of green and purple.

He let out a shaky laugh. "Oh, you know me – can't seem to stop running into things. It's like a hobby, you know? Like, some people draw, others play baseball," he was rambling, but maybe if he talked long enough, Scott would forget why they were having this conversation in the first place, "Others smoke pot. Me, I run into things. But, I mean, it's not like it's my _only_ hobby; I do other things, too, and –"

"Why are you lying to me?"

Stiles refused to look at Scott. "It's nothing," he said quietly, turning away.

"Bullcrap," Scott immediately responded and gripped Stiles' forearm.

Stiles released an involuntary cry of pain and tried to shift his throbbing arm out of Scott's firm grasp.

Scott had relaxed his hand at Stiles' shout, but his eyes were narrowed, and he looked more determined than ever when he said, "Stiles, let me see your arm."

Stiles stopped fidgeting and stared hard at the ground. "No."

The word had barely made it past Stiles' lips before Scott was yanking Stiles' sleeve up to his elbow.

Large bruises adorned his entire forearm, but the most prominent features were the deep, red gash on his inner arm and the long, thin purple marks that wrapped around his wrist. It looked worse than it really was, though. Besides, he could handle a little pain.

Scott sucked in a gasp, his eyes riveted on the myriad of colors. "Those are finger marks." The words were said with cold certainty, and Stiles thought he caught a flash of yellow in Scott's eyes.

"I –" Stiles began, but then Coach Finstock rounded the corner of the lockers.

This week really could not get any worse, Stiles decided.

"Coach," Scott said, "Stiles needs –"

"I see it," Coach interrupted briskly, his eyes fixated on Stiles' arm. "McCall, get out."

Stiles might have snickered at the devastating look Scott sent Coach under any other circumstances. "But, Coach –"

"McCall!" Coach yelled. "Leave!"

Scott scowled, then sent Stiles a look that clearly meant, _You're not getting out of this conversation that easy, buddy_ , before he stormed out of the room.

Not that it mattered where Scott was, since he would probably use his super-hearing to listen in on this anyway.

"Stiles," Coach said, and Stiles blinked. He could count on one hand the number of times Coach had ever used his first name. "Is – is someone hurting you?" Coach looked visibly upset, but not in the "we're-about-to-get-beat-in-lacrosse" kind of way. It was in a display of emotion that Stiles couldn't quite put his finger on.

"No," Stiles answered immediately, pulling his sleeve back over his wrist.

Coach's face seemed to shift in anger. But not at Stiles, it felt like. "Tell me who it is," he said, his voice low and tight. "Tell me who it is so I can kick their face in."

Stiles' throat tightened, and he felt wetness burn behind his eyes. He blinked hastily. He was _not_ about to cry in front of Coach. He _refused_ to cry at the fierce (comforting) emotion his teacher seemed to be directing at him right now.

But, even if he wanted to take Coach up on his offer, he couldn't. This was too big, too complicated for someone with absolutely zero knowledge of the supernatural to be involved in.

He shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut.

There was a long pause before Coach exhaled loudly. "Well, you know I'm going to have to tell the administration about this, and they'll have to inform your father –"

Stiles wrenched his eyes open at that bit of information. "No!" he cried. "No, no, you can't do that." His dad already suspected that something was up - Stiles was actually surprised he'd gotten away from the sheriff that easily last night. And if his dad became entangled in this, there was no sure way Stiles could protect the elder Stilinski. Ignorance was Sheriff Stilinski's only defense in this matter - _everyone's_ only defense.

Coach froze, his eyes fixed onto Stiles'. Then, in a voice Stiles could only describe as _scary_ , Coach said, "Stiles . . . did your father do this?"

"No!" Stiles immediately responded, shocked that Coach was even considering that idea. He could have screamed in frustration. _Nothing_ was working out right today. "Of course not!"

Coach still looked skeptical, but all he said was, "I'm going to have to send you down to the office."

Then Scott was standing in the doorway. "I'll walk him there," he volunteered.

Coach cast Scott a suspicious glance, then shook his head. "I'm taking him. McCall, just – just make sure nobody's dead when I get back, all right?"

Scott was clearly unhappy with the decision, but he only nodded. "Yes, Coach."

Coach jerked his head at Stiles. "Stilinski, let's go."

Stiles snapped to attention. "Coming, Coach." He quickly changed back into his jeans and followed Coach out the door, deciding to ignore the panicked thoughts teeming in his mind for now.

"For now" being the entire silent walk to the principal's office. Once Coach pointed at one of the chairs outside the office with a short, "Sit," and strode into the principal's domain, the thoughts could be staved off no longer.

Stiles sank into the furniture and put his face in his hands. This was so, so wrong. No one was supposed to know about this, let alone blame his _dad_ for it.

He forced himself to breathe. _That's fine, that's fine – I'll fix it. Just like I always do._ He'd tell them he'd been playing lacrosse with a few members from a rival team, and that things had gotten a little out of hand. _Except,_ he thought with a scowl, _You've already used lacrosse as an excuse for a previous beating. You're gonna have to get a little creative here, Stilinski._

He could do creative.

Then Scott slid into the empty chair next to Stiles, and Stiles wondered why he'd ever thought Scott would wait until the end of the day to question him. "Aren't you supposed to be supervising Coach's class or something?" Stiles said snidely.

Scott waved a dismissive hand. "Danny's on top of things." Then he turned serious. "Stiles, why won't you tell me what happened to you?"

Stiles shrugged, hoping he looked nonchalant. "Because it's not a big deal."

Scott's mouth dropped open, his puppy eyes wide. "Not a big deal?!" he started to yell. Then he seemed to remember that they were right outside the principal's office, because he lowered his voice into a whisper-shout. "My best friend is _hurt_ and he won't tell my why. If that's not classified as a _big deal_ , then I don't know what is."

Stiles couldn't help but respond in a snarky tone, "Oh, I don't know, maybe your best friend turning into a blood-thirsty monster and trying to slash your throat open once a month."

Scott delivered his classic "that's not funny, Stiles" look and said, "I heard what Finstock said. About it being your dad."

Stiles cut in heatedly before his best friend could say anything more. "It's not!"

"Of course it's not!" Scott exclaimed. "I never said it was! Your dad would _never_ do something like this."

Stiles leaned back in his seat, relieved that Scott knew his dad well enough to disregard Coach's theory.

"Besides," Scott continued, "Those wounds are obviously from a werewolf."

Stiles tensed in his seat, any relaxed posture forgotten. "Wh-why's that?"

And cue Scott's classic "I'm not stupid, Stiles" look. "They're _claw_ marks, Stiles. Give me some credit."

Oh. Right. Stiles should have thought of that.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Lol so I thought I was done with this story (no creative juices flowing and whatnot), but I was bitten by the writing bug today. Which I think is a thing. But anyways. Still haven't finished the story, still probably won't, but here you are haha.**

* * *

After a few seconds of silence, Scott burst out with, " _Well?_ Who was it?"

"Nobody," Stiles snapped. He was sick to death of this whole "help poor, defenseless, damsel-in-distress Stiles" vibe that seemed to be permeating every person with whom he came in contact lately.

As soon as Coach opened the door, Stiles rose to his feet. "I want to go home," he said firmly, ignoring Scott's worried (annoying) stare.

Coach leveled his gaze at Stiles. "You're going to the hospital, Stilinski."

Stiles bristled. "I don't need a hospital," he said through gritted teeth.

Coach ignored him and fixed his eyes on Scott. "McCall, I thought I told you to watch your imbecile classmates." Despite the words, there was no heat in Coach's tone.

"Listen," Stiles said. Maybe he could get out of this if he blew it off as nothing. Reining in his anger, he said, "I appreciate you wanting to help, but I'm fine, really. I don't need -"

"McCall," Coach barked. "You've been excused from class to drive Mr. Stilinski to the hospital."

Scott blinked, but he then hastily replied with, "Thank you, Coach."

Coach only grunted before making his way back toward the gym.

"Scott." Stiles whirled on his best friend as soon as Coach was out of sight. "C'mon, man, you know you can't take me there."

"Stiles, I'm taking you to the hospital. End of discussion."

Scott was already striding toward the exit. Stiles hurried to catch up. "No, I mean, what'll the doctors think when they see frickin' _claw marks_ that more than likely came from a _wolf_?" Which, yeah, was a good point, but not the real reason Stiles didn't want to go. Getting him medically checked out was just one step closer to them figuring out what was happening. One step closer to them finding out who was doing this.

One step closer to losing everyone he's ever cared about.

Scott shrugged. "They'll come up with a normal explanation. They always do."

And . . . Stiles had no possible counter to that.

"But if you're that worried about it," Scott continued, "My mom can probably look at you on her own."

 _Oh, sure, that's a great idea, Scott!_ Stiles thought vehemently. _Let's add the woman who_ raised _you to the list of people involved in this situation who are about to be brutally murdered!_ All he said was, "Nah, your mom's way too busy. Wouldn't want to disturb her." _Or get her killed._ Besides, maybe the waiting list to a regular doctor would be too long and Scott would get bored, allowing them both to leave without an actual check-up.

* * *

"Lucky you!" The lady behind the reception desk grinned brightly at the two boys. "Dr. Emmerson has just enough time to check you over, as he's in between patients right now!"

"Yay," Stiles cheered in monotone. "Lucky me."

The only reason the nurse had even bothered looking for available slots for the two of them was because everyone at the hospital was friends with Melissa McCall. Scott got an automatic "Pay attention to me" card every time he set foot in this building.

Scott shot him a quick glare before smiling at the woman. "Thank you so much," he said sincerely. "We appreciate it."

"No, Scott," Stiles hissed as they approached the doctor's office. "We definitely do _not_ appreciate it."

Scott through his hands into the air, exasperated. "What's your deal, man? Why are you so against getting _help_?"

Stiles bit his lip and looked away.

Scott sighed. "Let's just . . . finish the check-up. And then, _then_ -" he pointed at his best friend. "You will be telling me everything."

Stiles frowned. "Fine," he lied.

They entered Dr. Emmerson's office.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski was sitting at his desk at the police station when his cell phone began buzzing irritably. The sheriff fished his device out of his pocket and answered it without looking at the caller ID. "Stilinski."

"Mr. Stilinski," a woman's voice, strong and authoritative, answered him, "This is Beacon Hills High School."

Cold terror gripped Sheriff Stilinski's heart. _It's fine,_ he told himself sternly. _Stiles is fine. He probably skipped or got detention._ His son hadn't always been an _extremely_ truant child, but something had changed in these last few months. The sheriff didn't know what had happened, but suddenly everything easy and relaxed in his relationship with his son had become strained and forced. They weren't on bad terms _per se_ \- in fact, to an outsider, their interactions probably looked normal, familial. But the truth of the matter was that he'd never felt more distant from Stiles than he did now.

 _"_ We are calling to let you know that your son was dismissed from his classes today so that he could go to the hospital."

The sheriff gripped his phone tighter, the initial terror he'd felt when he first got the call constricting his chest. "I - is he okay?" he managed to get out past his compressed lungs.

The woman hesitated, and that split second of silence was years to Sheriff Stilinski. "I'm not at liberty to say."

At first, the words didn't register to the sheriff. And when they finally did, it still took him a minute to respond. Because surely she didn't mean what she had just said, right?

Sheriff Stilinski's hand clenched into a fist. "Not at _liberty_ to _say?_ " he said, fighting to keep his voice down. Several deputies were already glancing at him through the windows of his office. "I'm his _father_. What do you _mean_ you're not at _liberty_ to _say_ what condition my son is in?"

The woman, seemingly strengthened by the anger in his tone, replied coolly, "I mean that I am not allowed to disclose that information to you."

 _You'll be lucky to keep your job once I'm through talking to administration,_ he thought viciously. "Can you at least tell me when he left?" he said through clenched teeth.

He heard her rifling papers on the other end. "About an hour ago."

This time the sheriff didn't even bother trying to lower his voice. "He went to the hospital an hour ago and you're telling me _now?"_ Without even really being aware of it, he was already throwing on his coat and headed out the door.

He didn't wait for the woman to come up with a half-cocked excuse - he ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket. He took a brief moment to tell the department where he was going, but then he wasted no time getting into his car and roaring out of the parking lot.

He arrived at the hospital in record time (because he may or may not have been aided by the sirens on his car). He burst through the hospital doors, knowing he'd gotten there quickly, but not knowing if it was fast enough. His son could be bleeding out on a gurney, for all he knew.

"What room is Stiles Stilinski in?" he barked at the receptionist, not caring how impolite his actions might be. He _needed to see his son._

The young man behind the desk, flustered, began typing into his computer rapidly. He was obviously new - the sheriff had never seen him before. "Um, yes, just a minute, sir."

The sheriff impatiently stood in front of the desk, his fingers tapping his leg as he waited for the answer.

When the typing slowed, Sheriff Stilinski shot a quick look at the receptionist. The young man's face was drawn into a slight frown as he stared at his computer screen. "Could you please tell me your relation to Mr. Stilinski, sir?"

"I'm his father," the sheriff said in what he hoped was a calm tone of voice.

"Oh . . . okay," the receptionist said, his eyes flicking from the desktop to the sheriff. "I'm gonna have to make a quick call." He picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. "Hello, this is Dave. I, um . . . Stiles Stilinski's father is at the front desk." His gaze nervously flitted back to the sheriff. "Yes. Right now. He wants to know which room his son is in. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, I understand. I'll tell him."

By the time the receptionist, Dave, hung up the phone, Sheriff Stilinski's fingers were itching to yank the computer toward himself and do his own search. "Well?" he bit out irritably.

"Uh," Dave said, "Someone will be down here shortly to talk to you."

Sheriff Stilinski froze. _He's dead, Stiles is dead, I didn't get here in time. The doctor is coming to deliver the bad news. He'll ask me to sit down - they always ask you to sit down, as though sitting down will help soften the blow, negate the damage, but it doesn't, it doesn't ever - and then he'll explain patiently that they did everything they could, but the injury (tumor) was too large, it was inoperable, it was impossible -_

"Sheriff?"

The familiar voice broke the sheriff out of his frantic, deteriorating thoughts. Melissa McCall was striding toward him, a pained expression on her face.

The sheriff's knees buckled and he nearly fell. "Stiles? . . ." he croaked. Already dark hopelessness threatened, looming at the edge of his mind. It was the same darkness that always caused him to pick up that second drink, that third shot; but this time there would be no one to pull him back, no reason for him not to drink himself into spiraling oblivion.

Melissa's brow creased for a moment, but then she seemed to understand what he was asking. "Stiles is fine," she soothed as she came to a stop near him, placing one hand on his arm.

Raw relief blotted out every other emotion for a moment. He took a sharp breath. "He's not . . . ?"

Melissa was shaking her head before he even finished. "He's _fine_ ," she repeated firmly.

The sheriff nearly sobbed at the assuaging news, but a fierce dart of anger jolted his senses. "Then _why_ won't anyone tell me what he's doing here? If he's _fine,_ he wouldn't _be_ here!" His voice increased in volume until he nearly shouted the last word.

Melissa paid no heed to the curious glances from the people in the waiting room as she ushered Sheriff Stilinski into an empty hospital room. She closed the door with a _click_ and then turned back to him. "Sheriff, I have bad news and then more bad news. At this point, I don't know which is worse than the other."

 _"Please._ " The sheriff's voice broke. " _Please_ just tell me how Stiles is."

Melissa let out a breath. "That's one of the bad news. I wasn't there for the actual appointment, but I read the notes Dr. Emmerson made." She half-smirked, but worry was still etched plainly across her face. "I'll leave out the medical jargon for your sake. He has multiple cuts and abrasions on his torso, arms, and legs, most fairly shallow, none deep enough to require stitches. He also has extensive bruising in the same areas." She paused, and when she spoke next, her words were slow, cautious. "It appears he received these injuries over a period of several days."

The sheriff gaped, his stomach twisting itself into a terrible knot. "He never said anything," he said quietly. Suddenly he slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knuckles. "But I should have known! I'm a cop, for crying out loud! He's been acting strangely. I brought it up once, but I should have pressed him. I shouldn't have stopped until I got a straight answer." He raised his shaking, bruised hand to his face. "What kind of a father am I?" he asked hollowly.

"It's not your fault," Melissa offered. "Teenagers excel at fooling people. _Especially_ the people they're closest to."

The sheriff closed his eyes. "But this never should have happened in the first place," he said. Then his features pinched tight and his eyelids flew back up. "Who did this?" he growled. "Who's been hurting him?"

Melissa swallowed. "Um, that's the other bad news. As of now, everyone is convinced that you're the one who did this."

Sheriff Stilinski's voice shook with a combination of horror and rage. "I have _never_ laid a hand on my son."

"I know that," Melissa said. "But they don't. And you won't be allowed near Stiles until you're cleared."

The sheriff put his head in his hands. _Stiles, what have you done?_


End file.
